


Anything for Science

by suitesamba



Series: LWS Challenge 15 Bingo [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: For Science!, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the experiences in Cuffed, Sherlock decides to conduct a small experiment of his own. John knows he should have left the room as soon as he walked in on naked Sherlock in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything for Science

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 15 Trope Bingo. The trope for this story is "For science!" This story follows "Cuffed," the first story in this five-story Bingo arc.

The week after the handcuffs event was awkward.

Sherlock, naturally, acted as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t been handcuffed naked to a bed with John, hadn’t deduced that John’s date had left him with a little gift – a vibrating toy up his arse. He didn’t mention Lestrade finding them, or the embarrassing and lengthy process of getting the cuffs cut off of them.

John didn’t mention any of these things either, but he thought about them. Frequently. More than frequently.

Constantly.

It was partially embarrassment. Humiliation. 

And it was partially realisation that being handcuffed to Sherlock Holmes – _naked_ Sherlock Holmes – actually did a lot more for him than the activities with Jayne prior to Sherlock’s appearance.

It was only a matter of time, he knew, until Sherlock casually mentioned something in public. Perhaps an innocent comment about John’s red pants to Mrs. Hudson, or God forbid, to Mycroft.

And now that John had seen the miles and miles of pale skin and curly hair and elegant lines that defined naked Sherlock Holmes, seeing him back in his dressing gown and suits just wasn’t enough.

Then, on Friday, after an interminable day at work, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom and found, to his surprise and puzzlement, Sherlock in his bed.

Naked.

He stopped just inside the door, mouth gaping, staring at Sherlock.

“Good – you’re here.”

“Wha – Sherlock?” 

He should have left the room immediately – indignantly even. But it was his room. _His_ bedroom. He wasn’t the intruder here – Sherlock was. 

Sherlock – naked on his bed, stretched out on top of the covers busily typing on his laptop.

Sherlock stopped typing and extended the laptop toward him.

“Sit over there – I need you to observe and enter the data. The spreadsheet is open. Three minute intervals, I think, but not until I’ve worked the plug all the way in.”

John had no words.

Well, he had a lot of words.

He somehow found himself sitting on the single chair in his bedroom, a straight-backed chair over which he draped dress shirts and his dressing gown, holding the laptop and staring – still gape-mouthed – at Sherlock.

He reminded himself – again – that he should just leave. That he should have walked out of the room as soon as he saw naked Sherlock. Definitely as soon as he saw naked Sherlock holding the – the device.

“That’s – that’s the one – that’s the thing – that –”

He was stammering.

“The plan,” said Sherlock, looking at John expectantly, “is for me to insert the device fully, then activate the vibrating mechanism. You will observe and record your observations at three minute intervals. Colour of the face, perspiration, heart rate, vocalizations, phallic status – you’ll find drop-down values in the spreadsheet so you only have to observe and record.”

John stared at him another thirty seconds, voiceless, before dropping his gaze to the spreadsheet. He clicked in the “phallic status” cell. The drop down offered “flaccid, semi-flaccid, semi-erect, fully erect.” Disappointing. He’d much prefer to use a ruler and record actual length, or a tape-measure to assess the girth.

He mentally slapped himself.

“Sherlock,” he said at last, looking up just in time to see Sherlock insert the tip of the device.

“I’m rather busy, John. Could it wait?” Sherlock obviously tried for a calm voice but John noted a soft grunt. 

Intriguing.

“No it can’t wait! What the _fuck_ is this about?”

“It’s an experiment,” grunted Sherlock. “Surely you can see that. You’ve the empirical evidence in your hands.”

“So you’re doing this –?”

“For science, John! For science!”

John bit his bottom lip and watched as Sherlock slowly, oh so very slowly, pushed the toy into his body. It seemed to take forever for it to be fully seated. Sherlock had his knees spread rather invitingly, affording John a perfect view of the process, though he’d have to move to be able to observe any of the reactions Sherlock had indicated.

Other than phallic status, of course.

Unfortunately, said phallus was not looking very interested currently.

“Look,” began John, wiping sweaty palms on his trousers and trying not to drip onto Sherlock’s laptop, “I’m not sure this is a good idea. In fact, this is a horrible idea. We don’t _do_ these kinds of experiments, Sherlock….”

Sherlock chose that moment to activate the vibration mechanism.

He shrieked. Attempted to throttle the noise. Groaned and grunted at the same time. Closed his legs quickly, opened them again. His hands clutched at the bedsheets.

John swallowed. Bit his lip again. Hard. Fuck. He tasted blood.

His eyes were on Sherlock’s cock, which had now begun to take an obvious interest in the experiment.

John’s own cock, in the meantime, seemed to have gone from “flaccid” to “fully erect” in a nanosecond. 

“John – are you timing this?” Sherlock’s voice was higher-pitched than normal.

“Timing? Oh – yeah. Right. Of course. Two minutes.”

John glanced at his watch. He had no idea how much time had actually elapsed, but he counted down forty-five more seconds then stood and took Sherlock’s wrist.

“What are you doing?” grunted out Sherlock.

“Taking your pulse.”

“Why?”

John glared at Sherlock. “Column B – Heart Rate.”

They stared at each other. John’s fingers were still wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist, measuring his rapidly-beating heart. 

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed – as much as it was able to with a vibrator pressed against his prostate.

“Not _my_ heart rate,” he said. “Yours.”

John dropped his wrist.

“What? Mine? You want me to record _my_ reactions to you shoving a toy up –”

“I hardly shoved it, John,” said Sherlock, through gritted teeth. “I inserted it. Carefully. And yes. Your physiological reactions, anyway….ahhhhhhh…..”

“Stop that!”

“Can’t.” Sherlock’s hand was moving toward his no longer semi-flaccid penis. While John stared, he grasped it, squeezed, and moaned.

John backed away.

Jesus. Sherlock was beautiful like this.

“How is this for science?” John asked. 

Sherlock turned his head on the pillow and stared at John. He smiled.

John knew that smile.

It was the kind of smile he had when he solved an especially vexing case. Pleased with himself. Delighted. Absolute certainty that he was right.

“You’re aroused.”

“I’m not – ” John sputtered in the middle of his denial. His eyes moved downward, toward his own straining erection contained beneath two layers of clothing but still unmistakably outlined in the crease between belly and thigh.

“So -” Sherlock paused, gritted his teeth, sweat breaking out on his forehead. John considered what the spreadsheet might allow. _No perspiration, light sheen, beads of perspiration, rolling rivulets._ “May I assume your interest is not merely…medical? Concern for my health?”

“Health?” John took a step closer, his mouth suddenly dry. He licked his lips. “Well, as your physician, I’d advise against the insertion of foreign objects, especially those containing batteries.”

“Even – even if said object is inserted for science?” 

The sweat was beginning to roll down Sherlock’s temples. 

“Yes. Decidedly. Even then. As your physician – I should probably remove it.”

John hoped he wasn’t drooling.

Sherlock’s knees dropped open. He winced, clenched his buttocks – his perfectly sculpted buttocks – and let out a moan that was part liquid sex, part animalistic invitation.

John put a knee up on the end of the bed and reached forward. He grasped the plug and pulled slowly, then pretended to fumble, pressing it back in. 

Sherlock keened. His hand on his prick tightened.

“Oops,” said John. “Lost my grip.”

It took several tries, several times when it was almost out only for John to fumble and press it back in, seating it fully, causing Sherlock to yowl like a tom cat on the prowl.

But finally John was able to extract the toy and drop it on the floor.

Sherlock jerked. 

The mattress bounced.

John was jolted and lost his balance.

How he landed with his mouth over Sherlock’s prick was anyone’s guess, but whether by accident, intent, or divine intervention, his lips closed around the fully erect phallus and applied the perfect amount of pressure, and only a minute later, Sherlock was coming down his throat.

John swallowed.

“Sorry about that,” Sherlock said a few minutes later. His legs were splayed out, feet off the end of the bed. John’s head rested on his belly, his fingers carding lazily through the nest of dark curls.

“No you’re not,” John said with a smile Sherlock could feel but not see.

“No, I’m not,” admitted Sherlock. “That was actually quite spectacular.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” mused John. 

“What is that infernal buzzing?” 

John leapt to his feet just as Mrs. Hudson pushed open the door.

“Hello,” said Sherlock. He beamed at her. “Weren’t you just leaving?”

She blushed, then frowned, then stared at the vibrating toy on the floor. John shrugged.

“It was for science,” he explained.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Hudson. She stared at the toy, stepping back as it bounced a few inches closer to her. “Anything for science.”

_End Part 2_


End file.
